


Stellar Parallax

by rednihilist



Series: Ecliptic [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s06e04 Book of the Stranger, Gen, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-06-08 23:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You look like Father," she says.</p><p>"And you look like your mother, m'lady."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.

"You look like Father," she says, and it's true, so much so that she'd not breathed for a moment, staring up at this strange man who is terrifyingly, heartbreakingly familiar. Familiar, family: to Sansa, in more than name, now more than he ever was before, more than anyone had been except perhaps Theon there at the end.

And he's silent for so long she realizes that remark could be hurtful to him or cruel, like she's mocking him or reminding him of some stupid place he was forced into, and when he still likely believes Bran and Rickon dead by Theon's hand, and he must know about– about Robb. . .

But then his mouth tilts up, his eyes crinkling and head moving downward, and he's Jon, just Jon, who she pretended wasn't anyone for so long, who she pretended she didn't see more often than not, who she wished would just go away so Mother and Father would never fight, and who she nastily called "bastard" as if that word meant a damn thing. He's Jon, and he's standing here smiling that sad pitiful smile at her, and he says, not intending to hurt her and of course not knowing what everyone's said about her and her blasted red hair:

"And you look like your mother, m'lady."

She hears behind her, as Brienne makes a sound in her throat, but Jon's smiling through the awfulness, trying to make this something pleasant for her, for his little sister, always his sister, no matter how heartless she was to him in Winterfell, and so Sansa throws back her shoulders and returns his smile.

"Seven hells," she says, cheerily, "it's freezing up here!"

Jon laughs. He grins and reaches out, picking up the end of her braid and waving the tail in the air.

"Aye," he says, "it's the true North you're in now, Lady Stark," and he means it kindly, proudly, maybe explaining to all the men surrounding them just what it is between the two of them, playing a game of his own, but it's strange to hear nonetheless.

"Jon," she says again.

He drops her braid and drags her close once more, and when she closes her eyes and he whispers, "Gods, I never thought!" into her hair, it's like being home again, not Winterfell with Ramsay breathing violence all over every happy memory, not Petyr's heavy hand moving her into position from the shadows, or even the Hound's rough touches and desperately pleading look.

This is the North, where it's always snowing, where, and Brienne almost draws her sword once it becomes clear padding close to them, at least one direwolf still roams free.

"Ghost," Sansa whispers, and when he's close enough that he nudges her hand with his nose, that's when she can feel the tears sliding down her cheeks, cold and freezing before they even touch the ground—the same tears in Jon's eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

"I fought," he'd said, "and I lost."

Safe in a bed with Brienne pretending sleep on the floor and Podrick audibly rustling and moving around next door, she keeps her eyes closed and brings his face to mind, how he'd looked when he'd said it, and before when he hadn't even lifted his head as he told her in short sentences and a monotone voice, a _dead_ voice, what had– what they'd done to him. He'd looked how she felt, how Theon had looked, how he must've felt too, lost and hopeless. But Sansa doesn't feel that way as much anymore, not since seeing Jon, since she'd reached out and embraced someone she knew she could trust.

That's it. More than a knight and a squire with her because of duty, or some pathetic cousin obliviously locked up in his tower, or a man who'd looked at her like she was her mother, or even Theon who didn't really look at her at all, Jon is family, and he's Sansa a moon's turn ago, despairing that life was ever any different anywhere else in the entire world, that it was worth living for anyone.

She'd needed hope: Theon pushing Ramsay's woman over the side, grabbing Sansa's hand, and looking at her as they jumped together; Brienne with her knightly ways and understanding looks, cutting down men for her, for Sansa, for her mother, standing in front of her against the world; and Pod who, in little ways, reminded her that she wasn't, or hadn't always been, or could be other than Ramsay's wife and Littlefinger's bloody key to the North and the last of her House, that she'd once counted for more than her claim, that people could be good for no real gain. She can be Sansa Stark, and she's getting there. With Jon, she's never been anyone else and so it was easy to say the words and convince both him and herself in that room of his that she had remained strong, to put on her armor, as it were. But he's not there yet. He's still waiting to land from the jump off the tower, still reaching for the hand of someone who knows him, who can help him escape back to somewhere good.

He's been dying up here, actually– actually dying and dead and somehow brought back, but also just withering away. He was always sad and sullen in Winterfell, and he still is, but he's harder now in Castle Black, like he was proven right, as though every bad thing they said about him or that he thought is somehow true.

But he's not right, and those things were never true, not in Winterfell and certainly not here, where he is the son of their father, where he is a good man and her brother, where he's proven he'll do the right thing even when it's hard.

They're here together, and maybe the two of them were never more than family in not even name, but here they're closer than kin. He embraced her and smiled at her, not out of duty or some lingering sense of loyalty, but because he saw Sansa, his sister, someone he, like she had, never thought to see ever again, one person of fewer than a handful he knew he could trust. He trusts her enough to cry in front of her, to admit like a confession that he's putting on a brave face for the other men but doesn't feel the same anymore, and so Sansa thinks now, lying fully warm in a bed for the first time in years, that she can take on some of the weight, that she can grab his hand and be brave when he's doubting and smile and joke when all he wants to do is cry. She was never a good sister, not to any of them, but she's not that idiot anymore either.

It's time to grow up.


	3. Chapter 3

"He's not," she says, pausing for a few seconds, "how I imagined him, my lady. That is all."

Sansa attempts a smile as she braids her hair back along her head, looking out through the small window onto Castle Black's training yard. "And what picture had you in mind of Jon?" When Brienne doesn't answer, Sansa turns and asks cheekily, "Was he taller?"

A smile at that, though it quickly subsides. Some might call her knight dour, but Brienne fits her well, fits better up North as well, where her skills and integrity define her and not what she isn't, namely a useless pretty songbird or conniving harpy like most Southron ladies. Sansa finds Brienne reassuring and refreshing, someone determined to do the right thing in the face of countless obstacles, someone worthy of knighthood.

"Not necessarily taller, my lady," Brienne answers, meeting her eyes seriously, "but certainly—older."

Sansa nods and turns back to the window, finishing her braid and tying it off with the sad bit of black rope she's managed to hold on to despite it all. There was never any part in the songs that described how the fleeing maidens managed to stay presentable, no verse about how they kept their dirty hair out of their eyes or pretended they couldn't smell themselves, unwashed and drenched in fear sweat, their hands bloodied ruins as they bit and picked around the nailbeds during the long harsh ride, worried they'd never make it to safety, terrified their pursuers would capture them once more and they'd never see the light of day again—or worse.

She takes a deep breath, realizes when she glances towards Brienne that her lapse in calm was noticeable, but her knight is kind and certainly knows something about masking one's internal turmoil, or even failing to, and Brienne only meets Sansa's eyes with her same deferent expression and thankfully not any kind of judgment or censure.

Looking out the window, Sansa can see some of the Night's Watch at practice, the sound of steel against steel and wood echoing around the stones. She can't see Jon from here and wonders if such daily activities as sword practice are beneath him now. He must have more important matters to attend to than chaperoning sparring.

And then she remembers he's not Lord Commander anymore, or at least often says he isn't, even though she's seen firsthand how he still answers the other men's questions, still takes ravens' (and Bolton messengers') missives and sits behind that desk to write out responses, scowling like Father.

"Robb used to tease him," Sansa says, her eyes settling on one of the brothers below as he wildly swings and tries to hack his opponent into submission. "He said Jon's spirit was just as tangled and dark as his hair. We all laughed, even Jon." The man attacking manages to disarm his partner, to a loud cheer from the onlookers. "Robb always made him laugh. He was funny and clever but never mean about it. He made everyone laugh."

Brienne says nothing, and Sansa's glad. She knows her knight was with Mother and Robb for a time, knows she likely has a few anecdotes she could share right now that would draw out the moment of nostalgia Sansa's given in to. But she refrains, and that means a great deal to Sansa, knowing she's allowed to speak without fear of being silenced or even, as often happened up until Brienne, fear of being corrected or overshadowed, surpassed and shown to be the useless fraud she is.

Sansa turns then and smiles at Brienne once more, and it's becoming easier and easier every time she does it. Her knight wears her armor not with pride, but with ease and experience, and Sansa knows here is a woman she can confide in and gain strength from, who can protect her with her silence and honor as much as her skill with a blade or her sheer size.

"I wish to see my brother, Lady Brienne," Sansa says, almost tripping over the title.

Brienne nods, moving to the door and opening it, stepping out onto the walkway and looking around before turning back to Sansa. "I'll gladly escort you, my Lady Stark," she says quietly, more words lurking behind the simple phrase, more tales and moments in her eyes as she keeps a most watchful eye over Sansa.

The wooden planks are sturdy beneath her feet, sometimes slippery with the ice and snow that is more a part of this place than the men who live here or the Wall itself, here in the North, where wildlings are free folk, where women fight and die alongside their men, where it's always bitingly cold and more honest because of it. As she reaches the door to the Lord Commander's rooms, where Jon is likely still sitting within, still tying up the many loose ends and forever worrying himself sick over things no one else would ever take the time to consider, as Brienne comes close and raps sharply on the door a few times, Sansa breathes deeply, daring to think and linger on the feeling that mayhaps Fate has turned, that she too holds her tongue on things best left unsaid, but that perhaps, as the door is opened and she sees Jon frowning and glum as usual, some nostalgia, some reminiscences aren't all bad, aren't completely crushing—but rather, remind them of what they come from and what they're fighting for.

For happiness and good cheer and teasing that's not cruel.

She smiles, and Jon's frown deepens, but then he smiles back.

And Sansa laughs.


	4. Chapter 4

"Can I ask you a question?"

Jon turns his head a little, looking at her from the side of his eyes. His lips twitch, not a smile or maybe just the Jon Snow kind, that tiny thawing acknowledgment that he's well aware of the humor or irony in the situation but is still unmoved. Sansa can't blame him, envies him even. All of her smiles are lies. At least Jon's honest about being grim.

"You mean, another one besides?" he asks, cheekily.

"Yes," she says, almost happy but for the memories of Father making the same joke so often she and Arya would frequently beat him to it. He'd said it in Winterfell, on the Kingsroad—in the Red Keep. And he'd smiled, always smiled, a joke he never tired of. "Am I to stay here with the women and children while you go off to fight?"

Now he's not looking at her at all, just staring into the fire with that blank expression of his.

"Aye," he says a moment later, "safest here. If we fail, you'll have time to make it back to the Wall."

"We won't fail," she says immediately, and it comes out sharper than she'd intended, but perhaps that's best. Perhaps she should be more honest now that she's with Jon and his wildling army. It's a nice thought, that up here in the North everything's clearer, the air, the people, even the politics, but it's not true. The Boltons are Northerners, the other houses, even the men of the Watch, and nothing is ever simple. If she's learned anything since they first set off for King's Landing it's that no one knows even half of what's going on around them. Those who think they do are even more delusional than the rest.

Jon doesn't say anything to that, and she can't tell if he's silent because he doesn't want to scare her or simply doesn't want to argue. Likely both. It's still so incredibly uneasy between them, and she's constantly trying to reach him and bridge the gap without calling attention to it or making the situation worse. How many times can she apologize before the words mean nothing? How many times will she think the time right to tell him some horrible truth of hers, only to refrain at the last second? She stares at his profile, this man with the beard and hair of their Father, with his sad eyes and downturned mouth and gloomy disposition, and she wonders if anyone's ever broken through. Is this his pretend face or his real one?

Is she wondering about Jon or herself?

"Can I ask you a question?" Jon says, and Sansa startles a bit.

"You mean," she begins slowly, and he makes a breathy sound before saying with her, "another one besides?"

He waits until the moment's gone and then asks, "What happened with Tyrion Lannister?"

Sansa immediately turns her head away, fidgets with her gloves before catching herself and quickly placing her hands flat in her lap.

"We wed," she eventually says, "and then I left."

"How?" he asks, and he's looking at her.

She doesn't fidget, but she can't quite keep her breathing steady. "Littlefinger took me to the Vale, to my Aunt Lysa and cousin Robert. And then I– we– I was wed to Ramsay. In Winterfell."

If she turns her head any farther away from him, she'll be looking behind herself, but she can feel him picking apart and prying beneath her pathetic summary of events. She's all but given him the knife to twist. Littlefinger and Ramsay and what he hasn't asked or demanded her to confess. No "Why did you agree to marry a Bolton?" or "How did you escape Winterfell?" but he must have thought them by now, come up with answers on his own.

She wants to tell him, desperately, the words so heavy in her mouth she feels she's choking on them, but she never ever will. She will never tell him what happened.

Finally he turns back to the fire, takes a deep breath and asks, "Was Tyrion terrible to you?"

What?

She looks over at him, gets that side look again, and says, almost feeling grateful for the chance to tell the truth, "No. He wasn't. He was—maybe the only one who wasn't."

"Good," Jon says. A moment later, after she's relaxed a little and is just thinking of retiring for the night, Jon says, "I won't take his head then."

She doesn't look at him, and he doesn't look at her, and she leaves shortly after, but when she does, she reaches out and places her hand on his shoulder before standing, as though she's bracing herself on the snow.

Snow. What's buried in the snow in winter is exposed in the summer. Maybe he's right to hide himself away and not lie about it. Maybe that means there will be something left when this is all done. Maybe she's not hidden who she is behind her smile but replaced it.

"Goodnight, Jon" she says.

"Goodnight, Sansa," he returns.


	5. Chapter 5

She does take the Lord's chambers, Mother's and Father's old rooms. They've been thoroughly cleaned since—since. Below, there are still lords and ladies of the North, drinking the Boltons' wine and eating the Boltons' food, and it is beautiful.

Jon, she discovers two days later, is sleeping in his old room and resists moving to another. There are more suites in Winterfell: the rooms King Robert stayed in, those for Cersei. Even the single rooms farther from the kitchens are larger than what Jon has.

"Is it you playing the martyr, or did you truly miss that drafty old cubby?" she asks him, only half-teasing.

He smiles, something fond and self-deprecating and just a little bitter. These days, he's easier to read, and Sansa's not sure if that's because she knows him better or because he lets her see. Either way, it pleases her.

"Both," he answers. Turning his head to look out at the hall full of Northerners, Jon says, "I'm used to it, small, stone, a single window." After a pause in which Lord Cerwyn's high-pitched shrieking laugh rings out across the hall, undoubtedly a result of another barb from the young Lady Mormont, Jon carefully adds, "Besides, I have good memories of that room." He turns back to meet Sansa's eyes. "Close to the kitchens," he says with a smirk, this expression reaching his eyes.

Sansa smiles. "You could do with some fattening up."

Jon's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? You think me skinny?"

Now she turns her head, briefly catching Lyanna Mormont's eyes, that tiny force of nature who reminds her of no one so much as—Arya. "I think," Sansa says, "we should eat and make merry while we can."

"Aye," Jon says, "and if the Lady of Winterfell orders me to stuff my face, why, then who am I refuse?"

Lady of Winterfell. She ends up smiling despite herself. Yes, she supposes it's true. Jon's King in the North, but there's more to the North than their ancestral castle. He'll leave eventually, to go back to the Wall, and who will stay and hold Winterfell if not Sansa?

"Do you think they'd be proud of us?" she asks before she can think better of it. What a stupid thing to say. She can't look at Jon after it comes pouring out her mouth, insensitive and childishly sentimental.

"They'd be very proud of you, Sansa," Jon says almost immediately, and she does turn her head to meet his eyes, those dark Stark eyes like Father's and Arya's and Bran's. He looks like Father, is noble and good and forgiving like him, fights like everyone said Father fought.

And Sansa knows Father would be proud of Jon, just as she's sure her mother would most assuredly not.

"You deserve this," she says instead. "You earned it."

He makes a face, a grimace.

"Think I more bumbled into it by accident," he says, wryly.

Sansa laughs, loudly, this time her voice echoing around the hall. When heads turn to look, Jon lifts his goblet of Ramsay's wine in a toast, and everyone follows suit. Sansa's embarrassed, Jon's comment not even especially funny, but it's brought corresponding smiles to those lords and ladies and wildlings and loyal Northerners assembled here. She lifts her cup high and they drink together, all of them, as she and Jon sit here at the head of the hall, the King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell, brother and sister, the Starks returned.

And when Ghost silently noses at Lyanna Mormont's hand not two minutes later, Sansa thinks the girl's resulting delighted laughter a sound even Lady Catelyn would appreciate.


End file.
